Chapter Nine ~ Fiona
A melody surfaces from the darkness and plays through my mind.
From the fog, an image of my dad comes into focus.
He’s sitting at the piano downstairs, playing one of his favourites, “Für Elise”.
My heart expands when his bright, smiling eyes meet mine, filling me with a familiar sense of love, warmth, and acceptance.
“It’ll all make sense eventually, Fiona Mae,” he says.
My eyes fly open. My brain is sluggish as the dream scatters, and I blink against daylight when I expected the room to be cloaked in darkness. I attempt to sit up in bed, but it feels as if a lead blanket is holding me down.
This isn’t the first time I’ve dreamed about my dad since he died. He’s often just there, in the background, a steady presence while I make my way through dream worlds. This is the first time he’s spoken directly to me, though, and his words are already fading away.
What isn’t fading is the sound of “Für Elise” coming from downstairs.
For one blissful, soaring moment, my brain tricks me into believing the last few weeks have been a nightmare, and Dad is still alive.
He’s the only one who ever plays the piano.
The song comes to an end, and that delusional little bubble of hope bursts.
Of course it’s not Dad. It was likely a remnant of the dream I was having.
A prime example of how grief will play tricks on you and make you feel like you’re losing your mind.
And I do feel like I’m losing it. I’ve been having trouble sleeping for the last week.
It’s too quiet here. I’m used to noise and bustle: the sounds of the city outside my window; my roommates coming and going at all hours; muffled sounds of neighbours in hotels.
When I’m on tour, I’m used to hanging out with clients until the wee hours and talking over a pint and a shared platter of some local cuisine.
I’ve never needed much sleep, and can survive on a handful of hours, sometimes less, and jet lag mostly stopped being an issue for me early in my travel days.
For the last few mornings, I’ve awoken from my fitful sleep with an odd sensation I can only describe as homesickness.
I’ve always missed my parents in the years I’ve been away from Honeywell, sometimes so fiercely it’s like a physical ache in my heart, but I never thought of it as being homesick.
I didn’t miss this house, or long for walks in the park, or fantasize about the banana chocolate chip pancakes you can only get at Patsy’s Diner.
I didn’t think of the town hall meetings I was missing, or the endless string of festivals Honeywell is known for.
Now, though, there’s this longing in me.
A desire to wander around Hyde Park, or get a scone with clotted cream and jam from the café that’s owned by an ancient Londoner and her much younger husband.
An itch to hop on a plane and visit somewhere I’ve never been before.
An ache to meet a brand new group of people from all over the world and lead them through the streets of one of my favourite cities, pointing out places worth visiting, reciting history and facts I know as well as my own history, all while recommending the best places to eat, grab a pint, and shop.
I long for the impossibly blue skies of Rome, the otherworldly beauty of the Scottish Highlands, and the misty cliffs of Ireland.
Ireland. A place I thought I’d always have a home, but no longer do because my dad left his house to Nathan.
The shock of that still hasn’t worn off, even a few days after hearing it from Mum.
I was certain a mistake had been made until Dad’s lawyer showed me the paperwork that would transfer the cottage’s deed into Nathan’s name.
My phone vibrates from my nightstand. I almost ignore it until I see Mila’s name on the screen.
She’s been calling me every few days, which makes me feel simultaneously better and worse.
While it’s good to hear her voice and know I’m missed, talking to her makes me wish I were with her.
Then those thoughts lead to guilt because Mum needs me right now, and I should be focusing on living in the moment, even if ‘the moment’ feels like being stuck in limbo.
I answer the call and immediately jump into asking Mila questions.
She’s in her home city of Prague for the next few days, leading a tour.
I make her tell me about the people in her group and the things they’re doing.
I even make her describe in full, sensual detail the meal she just had, before she laughs and tells me she’s had enough of talking about herself.
“How are you, my little pet?” she asks. “Be honest. You know you never need to hide from me.”
I flop back on my bed with a sigh. “I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster of emotions.
I’ll be completely fine one minute, and then the least little thing will set me off, and I’ll be crying.
I know it’s all part of the grieving process, but it’s exhausting.
A couple of days ago, Mum suddenly reverted to the state she was in right after Dad died: back to wearing his clothes, wandering the house aimlessly, and rarely eating or drinking. ”
Joss wondered if Mum’s behaviour was brought on by the added change in routine with the movie crew renting out Sweet Escapes on a part-time basis to use as a filming location. Then there was the reading of Dad’s will, which I think drove home that he’s truly gone.
Mila makes a sympathetic sound. “Poor Mama Murphy. And poor you. I wish I could be there with you.”
“I love you for that, but you’re exactly where you need to be. And these phone chats help.” I feel a pang as I realize my dad said those exact words to me countless times.
“And you’re exactly where you need to be,” Mila says. “I know you’re carrying a lot of guilt, and I hope some of it will be soothed by being there for your mom. Your presence will help her get through this and start the journey toward healing.”
“It does feel good to be useful, even in a small way,” I agree. “To know that even though I don’t feel like I’m actually doing much, just being here is helping Mum.”
There’s a pause, and then Mila says, “But?”
She knows me too well. Before I can speak, she says, “You and I aren’t meant to stay in one place for long, are we? What was it Seamus always said? We have the rivers of the world running through our veins.”
“Always the poet,” I murmur.
“That was in his veins.” Her voice is soft, and I can hear a smile in it. “He had those rivers in him too, don’t forget. We’re wanderers, not meant to put down roots. At least not yet.”
Not meant to put down roots. I’ve been thinking about that a lot recently.
Part of me wonders if I should stay in Honeywell, especially if my suspension leads to something more permanent.
I could live with Mum, work at Sweet Escapes, maybe even get a part-time job at the small travel agency in the next town over.
If I couldn’t travel for a living like I’ve been doing, I could at least plan other people’s adventures.
And I wouldn’t have to stop travelling altogether; I could just limit my trips to short vacations like most other people do.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the piano starting up again.
I can’t imagine who’s playing it, but with Mum’s fragile state the last few days, I should investigate and maybe tell whoever it is to stop.
I ask Mila if we can talk later, and we exchange I love yous and goodbyes as I climb out of bed and head downstairs.
When I reach the living room doorway, I peer around the corner. My brain can barely compute the image of Nathan at the piano, playing “Claire de Lune”. His eyes are closed, head tilted slightly to the side as if he’s feeling the music as much as playing it.
Mum is curled up in Dad’s chair, draped in a heavy blanket that mostly obscures the Leary’s Pub sweatshirt she’s taken to wearing again the last few days.
I’m no better; I’ve been wearing one of Dad’s cardigans on and off.
It’s at the point where I should wash it, but every once in a while, my mind tricks me into believing I can still smell him on it.
Like Nathan, Mum’s eyes are closed. Tears slide down her face, but there’s something almost serene in her expression.
At the sound of my shaky inhale, Nathan’s eyes open.
His posture stiffens, and his fingers stumble on the keys.
I expect him to stop playing, but he keeps going.
Mum’s eyes remain closed until silence rings in the air after the last note.
“Oh, Fiona, you’re up.” She blinks as if she’s coming out of a deep sleep. “Nathan didn’t want to play while you were still asleep, but I asked him to.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly.
Mum disentangles herself from the blanket and pushes slowly to her feet. “I’ll go make some coffee.”
“Let me do it,” Nathan and I say at the same time.
A ghost of a smile flits across Mum’s face. “It’s okay, you two, I can do it. I need to do it.”
She heads for the kitchen. Nathan and I remain where we are.
I still haven’t gotten over the shock of him playing piano and playing well, which likely means he didn’t learn recently.
I always wanted to play, and my parents even paid for lessons when I was younger, but I never learned anything past a simple melody.
The notes wouldn’t stick in my brain for some reason.
Dad said it was because I’d rather be outside exploring, or making mud pies, or traipsing through the wooded area at the back of our property.